


Chauvelin and the Poetry Battle

by lirin



Category: The Scarlet Pimpernel - All Media Types, The Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy
Genre: Common Meter Double, Gen, Humor, Limerick, Poetry, Possible Mild Anachronisms, Sonnet, Villanelle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 18:00:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7811737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/pseuds/lirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The poems just keep appearing, no matter what Chauvelin does.</p><p><i>There once was a shrimp dressed in sable</i><br/><i>Who wasn’t especially able</i><br/><i>To catch the SP</i><br/><i>(By which—of course—I mean me)</i><br/><i>Even if we were at the same table.</i> </p><p>Set in Kittychan’s Insufferabilityverse, but the poems fit equally well in normal SP-verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chauvelin and the Poetry Battle

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Insufferability of the Scarlet Pimpernel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4190742) by [kittychan_in_wonderland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittychan_in_wonderland/pseuds/kittychan_in_wonderland). 



> (In Kittychan's story, Chauvelin is actually also in the business of rescuing innocents, although Blakeney doesn't know it.)

Chauvelin opened the door of his office with a smile on his face and sunshine in his heart. It had been a good day. Four aristos rescued, arrangements made for more on the morrow, and the Committee of Public Safety none the wiser. Well, except for Chauvelin’s small band of technically-working-for-the-committee-while-actually-undermining-it stalwarts. All of whom were now sidling out of the room as fast as they could while trying to look as if they weren’t actually doing so. This couldn’t be good.

“Oh, Citizen!” Dufour called, as he climbed out the window (giving it a few swipes with a handkerchief as he went; if he were to have inquired, Chauvelin was sure Dufour would have claimed he was just cleaning, not, say, fleeing). “We found a note. I’m sure it’s not important, but we thought we’d better not destroy it before you had a chance to read it.” He jumped down from the sill. The room was now empty. But on Chauvelin’s nice clean and organized desk, sitting in the middle polluting the whole thing, was a scrap of paper with a red flower on it.

 _There once was a shrimp dressed in sable_  
_Who wasn’t especially able_  
_To catch the SP_  
_(By which—of course—I mean me)_  
_Even if we were at the same table._

“Nom d’un nom d’un nom,” Chauvelin said. He hurled the piece of paper into the fireplace and watched as it dissolved into little red sparks. Why did Blakeney have to keep amusing himself at his expense?

 

* * *

 

Three days later, Chauvelin walked into his lodgings, quite pleased with himself. He had rescued eight more aristos and had even, out of the sheer kindness of his heart, misled several members of the Committee of Public Safety who had been about to stumble across the poorly-chosen hiding spot of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and possibly others of his band of wretched miscreant villainous— Chauvelin paused his mental tirade as he spied a scrap of paper tucked in the doorframe. No, no, no, he must be imagining things. Blakeney had much better ways to spend his time—for example, educating his friend Ffoulkes in the proper selection and preparation of concealment—than writing doggerel like this sacré poem! What was a villanelle, anyway?

 _Why he tries, I cannot tell_  
_His efforts: unavailing_  
_A.C. can’t catch the Pimpernel._

 _Laid out here in this villanelle:_  
_A tale of utter failing._  
_Why he tries, I cannot tell._

 _This poem is just a bagatelle_  
_Dashed out as I go sailing._  
_A.C. can’t catch the Pimpernel._

 _With ease we storm each citadel_  
_While Chambertin stands, wailing._  
_Why he tries, I cannot tell._

 _With scarcely one or two brain cells,_  
_He shouldn’t dream of prevailing._  
_A.C. can’t catch the Pimpernel._

 _Despite his schemes to send us hell_  
_I find it quite plain sailing_  
_Why he tries, I cannot tell_  
_A.C. can’t catch the Pimpernel._

Why couldn’t Blakeney use his sailing time for something productive, like training his men, or as far as Chauvelin cared, holding costume contests? Chauvelin crumpled the paper up and looked around for something to burn it with. The fireplace had only ashes; the candles had all guttered until they were impossible to relight; he had run out of matches the day before and hadn’t bought more yet. Finally, he settled for tearing it up into tiny little bits and throwing them in the wastepaper basket. He could always light the wastepaper basket on fire later.

 

* * *

 

Another day, another return to the offices of the Anti-SP Division. This time, Chauvelin was still in the road outside when he spied a red-spotted scrap of paper wedged in the sash of his office window.

Scarcely thinking but only reacting, Chauvelin flung himself through the front door and into his office. He threw the window open and climbed onto the sill, stretching to reach the paper that he knew contained a poem.

“It’s not that bad, Citizen!” Desgas called. “Whatever happened, you don’t have to jump out the window!”

Paper in hand, Chauvelin climbed back into the room and glared at his underling. He would have rather glared at Blakeney, but somebody was better than nobody. “I’m not jumping anywhere. Where did this poem come from?” he snapped.

“Er...Citizen...a poem?” Desgas stammered.

Chauvelin sighed. “Out!” he yelled, and continued to glare at Desgas until the room was again empty. “Does nobody around here keep an eye out for the Pimpernel except for me?” he muttered. Wanting to get the pain over with, he unfolded the paper.

 _Once again, one of my poems,_  
_Sent for your approbation._  
_I swear however far I roam,_  
_They’ll still reach your location._  
_At this point, I would like to taunt_  
_Your failures (and appearance):_  
_Whate’er you do, I still shall vaunt_  
_My clever interference._

Clever interference, Chauvelin’s foot. The only thing Blakeney’s interference accomplished was to reduce Chauvelin’s ability to assist him in their common goal. Not that Blakeney knew it was a goal they had in common, but if he was going to do rubbish like this, Chauvelin didn’t particularly feel like making an effort to undeceive him.

 

* * *

 

Enough was enough. If Blakeney wouldn’t shut up with the stupid poems, then Chauvelin was prepared to beat him at his own game. He ordered Desgas to clear his weekend of all activities (“But what about the trial run for our rescue of the Marquise de—” “I said clear it!”) and set to work.

 _He dresses up ridiculously fine;_  
_His clothing drips with odious bits of lace._  
_It’s tricky to unearth his end design;_  
_He risks his life and claims it’s just a race._  
_I can’t describe how much I hate his face;_  
_I wish each time I see it was the last._  
_But still one or the other must give chase,_  
_Continuing this rancor we’ve amassed._  
_By hook or crook, I swear I will outlast_  
_This man that I so utterly detest._  
_I’ve never been so totally harassed_  
_As by this English fop; now I’ve confessed._  
_I’ll seek him “here and there”, that Pimpernel;_  
_Till finally I meet the rat in hell._

With a sigh, Chauvelin sat back and stretched. All around him were crumpled bits of ink-smudged paper, but in front of him, the completed poem sat right in the same spot where Blakeney’s first bit of doggerel had laid. In a way, he thought that perhaps its presence cleansed the desk of the odious blot the Pimpernel had given it. The world was once again righted; justice had prevailed and—

A piece of paper, folded into an aerodynamic dart, flew through the open window. Even though it was all the way across the room, Chauvelin was sure he saw a splash of red on it.

“Pierrefonds! Have we no security at all in this wretched building?” he shrieked, and cast the dart into the fire without unfolding it. No more poems. He could stand no more. He seized his sonnet, and clutched it to his bosom. Whatever Blakeney thought, he—Chauvelin—could be satisfied in that he and he alone knew which of the two was _really_ the better poet.

**Author's Note:**

> Of course when I’m signed up for two exchanges at the same time would be when I am suddenly super-motivated to write humorous verse. Neither of my exchange fics involves humorous verse. (Hmm...perhaps I need to change that…)


End file.
